


Anomaly

by vienne_la_nuit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Allies to Friends to more, Bisexual Female Character, Black Family-centric (Harry Potter), Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, House magic, I am going to go with, I am unsure how to tag this aspect, Internationalism in Magical Casting, Magical Alliance, Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Mourning, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Same Age, Slow Burn, Slytherin, Time Turner (Harry Potter), Women of colour, Worldbuilding, badass witches, mind magic, women and magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:34:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28532253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienne_la_nuit/pseuds/vienne_la_nuit
Summary: Narcissa finds an injured witch displaced through time and in a truly Slytherin fashion decides to take the only course of action that serves her family. Political and personal repercussions be damned.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Narcissa Black Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 40
Kudos: 236





	1. Zeit

A respite. Nothing else. One hour. To “dispose of your dead with dignity.” Hermione is too emotionally drained to be outraged at the absurdity of this statement. A single hour! They are most likely going to need weeks to find, gather and bury all the dead. And the fight isn’t over yet. As she looks over the dead bodies, the destruction of The Great Hall, she doubts if this marrow-deep anguish and sorrow are ever going to desert her. Yet, she can’t cry anymore – she doesn’t have any strength left. She closes her eyes and wills the pictures of dead friends, schoolmates, children away.

The air is heavy with pulverised stone, smoke, blood and decay. She stumbles over parts of the fallen rib vaults, cuts her hand on a sharp, broken edge of the keystone. Her other hand slips from Ron’s. In his grief, he just comes to a halt, he doesn’t look away from Fred’s body. She gently nudges him on. He needs his family now more than his friends.

“Go on, Ron. We are behind you.” She whispers. He nods, mute. As soon as he reaches his family, he embraces Ginny. She slumps into his arms, sobs wrecking her body. Ron strengthens his posture. As if he decided, he is going to shoulder the role of a big brother also in Fred’s stead.

Hermione looks away, teary-eyed. She absentmindedly begins to pick stone shards out of her palm.

_‘Keystone. Harry.’_ She turns around, seeking Harry. But he is nowhere to be seen.

_‘NO!’_

She breaks out in a run. Desperation, fear, anxiety and love drive her out of the Great Hall. Her only thought is _‘Harry, Harry, Harry!’_. Her frantic steps throw the settling stone dust up. It scratches her throat. She jumps over pieces of broken house tables. She already has stitches in her sides. _“You have allowed your friends to die for you.”_ She knows that Voldemort’s cruel words haunt Harry. She knows him. She knows he isn’t going to say goodbyes, nor will he explain anything. Harry helps. Whatever happens to him. Harry helps. She loves and fears his heart. She knows what he is doing now. Her brave, selfless, true friend. She steps into something horrifyingly soft, slips on the wetness, slides out of the Great Hall, but somehow keeps her balance.

_‘Harry! Harry! Harry!’_

She turns to the right and runs on to the marble staircase.

Until a most bizarre sight slows Hermione involuntarily to a halt. There is something disturbing at the beginning of the West Corridor. A magical haze, suspended in mid-air seems to be wrestling with itself. Its edges are pulsing in low waves, there are colours disintegrating in its middle. Her magic is crawling under her skin, alerting her to a danger her mind is yet to understand.

She looks around curiously. There are no fighting going on in the immediate vicinity of the anomaly. Retreating death eaters and castle-defenders alike stare riveted at it. Yet all of them keep taking small steps back, as if their own magic urged them not to aggravate the strange anomaly.

An ear-piercing scream makes Hermione jump. She snaps her gaze back to the haze which begins to take the form of a tall wizard in blue robes. The cohesion of his body appears to be partially failing. His face and limbs stay in a disintegrated state. The focal point of the anomaly is a growing golden light on the wizard’s chest. He keeps screaming even though he doesn’t have the organs for it anymore. He is neither here nor there anymore. Yet, his magic keeps on angrily fighting for an existence. The golden light begins to darken, as the disintegration of the body appear to win the battle.

Hermione knows this type of magic. Horrified she stumbles backwards. She clenches her hand on her stolen wand, the cut on her palm bleeds even more, coating the wand. She doesn’t notice it. In her utter fear her mind casts around something that can keep her anchored in the present. Facts.

_‘Some pureblood families are rumoured to have kept them as talismans. Even after the Ministry decreed their appropriation and regulation. Time turners! As talismans! Of all the irresponsible, unreasonable, foolish, entitled tales this had to be the true one!’_

Hermione supresses her tears of frustration. She has to leave Harry to his own devices. For this is a magical disaster of unknown proportions in the making. And she is the only witch aside from McGonagall around who knows how to erect time wards.

She lifts her left, beginning the upwards figure eight wand-movement. She breathes in, centres herself…

…and she fails to see how a curse ricochets off of the suit of armour diagonally behind her and is hurtling towards her.

It slices her back open. Before her brain can even register pain, its force propels her forward into the anomaly the exact moment as the golden light of time magic reaches its zenith.

In the next heartbeat Hermione Granger is swallowed by the anomaly.

***

The small hours before sunrise are Narcissa’s favourite part of the day. The night’s terrors are already slinking back to their hiding place; the oppressive light of the day is yet to show its new-lies-demanding face. Coincidently, she likes the castle this time of the day the most.   
Without anyone else around, enjoying her last moments of freedom of simply being herself. Without pretence.

The early May air feels cool, slightly humid, reassuring in its dichotomy of familiarity and playful, vital newness. She hums in contentment. Her steps echo slightly in the empty arcades of the West Courtyard. She always ends her Head Girl rounds here, at the dawn of a new day, enjoying the last vestiges of the night sky.

Suddenly she feels an overwhelming disturbance in ambient magic. It creates a grating sensation in her body. She stumbles, clenches her teeth together and breathes through the pain. She flicks her wrist, her wand slides into her hand.

As soon as it came, the oppressing magic flees, taking the painful sensations with it. Narcissa however doesn’t lets herself be lulled back into feeling safe.  
Something strange, hideous and contrary of natural magic is happening here.

She bends her knees, widening her stance into the second pose of combative magic, a classic but most logical move if faced with unknown danger. She also reaches through the enchanted part of her robes to the outer side of her left thigh to pull out her dagger. It is a family heirloom that stays hidden from any kind of detection charms, only people with Black blood can sense it. Narcissa prides herself of being more resourceful than any other Slytherins. She is after all not only the youngest Black, but also Bellatrix’s little sister.

She still doesn’t see the cause of her magical distress and her nonverbal homenum revelio charm yields nothing. Yet.

Suddenly she hears a splash, and sees a dark fluid splattering the middle of the floor, where the West Corridor leads into the Reception Hall. A deep golden haze begins to shimmer in the air above the fluid. It soon darkens and pulses with a higher frequency. Narcissa’s eyes widen in horror. She has the sense to dive to the side and throw a decidedly grey protection spell in front of her. She falls into a shallow, magically impenetrable pocket dimension of her own making.

She sees the light, now in deep amber shade, explode and vanish in a single outward wave the same time as she hears a wand clattering and a body hitting the ground. Her magic relaxes at last, the strange magical occurrence having finally dissolved itself.

Narcissa immediately jumps out of the pocket dimension, dispels it. She catches a glimpse of a still figure lying on the ground. She puts her dagger away as she runs up to the person.

It is a young woman. She is unconscious, surrounded by a puddle of her own blood. Narcissa falls to her knees as she hastily casts diagnostic spells.

There is a diagonal cut across her back, and she has lost dangerously lot of blood.

Narcissa casts the strongest stasis spell that Andr-, _Othersister_ thought her when she has been teaching her basic triage and magical first aid. A childhood spent with mitigating Bellatrix’s wild, at times self-destructing tendencies also means that Narcissa has never left her bedchamber without a vial of Blood Replenishing Potion since she was five. She thanks the star Bellatrix is named after for this habit as she administers the young woman the potion. There. Immediate life-threatening injuries became grave injuries.

With a slightly relieved exhale Narcissa is about to rip down the only silver button off of her Head Girl uniform, which would alert the four heads of houses, the headmaster and the mediwitch to a magical emergency at her location, when her gaze falls upon the less urgent results of her diagnostic spell. They are written in a dim teal light above the witch’s body, in order of most urgent to least, additionally also listing the most recent magical forces used on the witch’s body. No other triage diagnostic spell is as detailed as the one developed by Aunt Callidora, and thus it is one of the many required spells all children of House Black must master before Hogwarts. It is also one of the many Black spells they are unable to speak of outside of the House.

Narcissa reads the list again with growing astonishment.

Extensive tissue damage to the back – caused by a dark slicing hex of unknown origin.   
Temporal displacement – temporal magic.   
Prolonged Contact Disease - traces of ritual black magic.   
Nerve damage – exposure to Crutiatus curse.  
Ritual scarring – by cursed blade.  
Several lacerations and cuts all over the body.   
Acute exhaustion, magical and physical.  
Malnourishment.   
Historic: extensive tissue damage to the chest – caused by dark slicing hex of unknown origin.   
Historic: prolonged magical coma due to magical beast attack.

“Dear Morgana!”

Narcissa’s hand immediately falls away from the button in her fear. She decides to think the situation through before she acts. The woman isn’t after all in immediate life-threatening danger anymore.

Narcissa looks down at her really for the first time. In the first weak lights of a new day a pitiful yet awe-inspiring sight is offered to her.

At first she sees a huge mess of dark brown, long, partially singed hair which obscures the witch’s face. She lies on her right side, her right arm is sprawled in front of her, her head slumped onto it. Her breathing is laboured which isn’t a wonder, given the entirety of her back is sliced open with a single, diagonal cut that begins at her right shoulder and ends at her left hip. A single vertebra is visible, but her spine itself was spared. The sight makes Narcissa gag.

The witch reeks of blood, smoke, singed hair. She has muggle clothes on. The sleeve of her left arm is thorn apart. Narcissa can see the letters m-u-d-b-l-o carved into her arm. Suddenly Narcissa has to supress the urge to recoil. She takes a deep breath. After all, it isn’t as if anyone has seen them interact which could spell disaster for both of them.

“Just what happened to you?” She can’t hide her curiosity. Aside from the injuries, the witch’s extraordinary and quite frankly terrifying arrival just makes her even more curious.  
She tentatively reaches out and moves the witch’s hair out of her face. To her utter astonishment the witch must be around the same age as her.

She has a horizontal cut on her cheek. Her eyebrows are lovely, her lashes long. Her distinctive, large nose could be a characteristic feature, yet Narcissa suspects, her hair is too wilful to allow any other competition for the cursory glance of a superficial observer. Her dark brown skin seems ashy in the morning light due to pain, magical exhaustion and whatever happened to her in a vortex of temporal magic.

_‘Temporal magic.’_

Narcissa sits back on her heels in quiet contemplation.

_‘There are two courses of action. The first one is passivity via voluntary ignorance; due either to official ministerial guidelines in accordance of international magical law when encountering temporal magic - or due to pureblood views on magical supremacy given the woman’s…_ lineage _. The second one is using the situation which could lead to potential advantages_ _– or unimaginable disasters, never jolly mind disadvantages!_ ’

Narcissa begins to play with the silver-obsidian ring on her middle finger. A ring that is bestowed upon any third or lesser in line of succession children of the House of Black.

_‘On the other hand, there is a conflict, perhaps even a war brewing in magical Britain. Can I live with myself if I chose ignorance? How can I choose ignorance if my family’s future is this uncertain? We are Blacks. We_ will _drift into this war, either way. It would be foolish to think we could win and the family would be left unscathed. Action it is. Political views be damned, an advantage such as this must be used.’_

“Morgana, lend me your strength, for this is a path under the sun I shall walk alone.” Narcissa murmurs softly, before she opens her eyes.

She loathes to bring out a gravely injured witch out of a magical stasis spell. Time is also of the essence. She almost laughs out loud at this thought. She is sure she is getting hysterical. For she is about to make either single-handedly the biggest mistake of her life or the most advantageous alliance. Any moment they can be discovered thus she must act quickly.

She only has a single path left.

Narcissa, like her sisters as well, is talented in a special branch of magical theory or praxis. Narcissa’s happens to be mind-magic.

She takes a deep breath and gently touches the unconscious witch’s forehead – atypically she hopes for the best. Without the need for spell or wand movement Narcissa is inside the witch’s mindscape.

She has never seen a place like it in anyone’s mind.  
A huge fort dominates the land, its single entrance vault seems sturdy, its upper end flatter and wider than conventional European architecture. The merlons atop of the walls are for Narcissa’s eyes meticulously ornamented in a breathtakingly foreign style. One that medieval Europe couldn’t have hoped to achieved, even with the aid of magic. The fort thus must be either from the Middle East or from the Indian Subcontinent, Narcissa supposes. Its walls are made of a dull red stone. The landscape all around the fort is lush green, alive with plants, grass, small symmetric gardens, ponds with water plants and several pavilions, all built in different forms. Arrestingly, the cultivated gardens, nature and architecture harmonise.

Narcissa has the sense that this is a mind untrained in occlumency, so she takes care not to move or look all too closely for details. She wants to gain the witch’s cooperation after all.

“Miss? I wish to speak with you. It is urgent.” She says at last.

As soon as her voice stop being carried over the mindscape, the vista changes drastically. The sky becomes dozens of different shades of purple and violet, the plants and grass appear greener, both of them make the fort’s walls seem dark red. Narcissa stumbles at the sudden crushing feeling of grief and anguish. The wind picks up slightly. It carries broken, disembodied, whispered sentences, sounds of fragmented memories to Narcissa’s ears.

“Harry.”   
“…or worse! Expelled!”   
“Dentists.”   
“Are you a wizard?”  
“…he is a cat!”   
“Harry.”   
“…to your vault! We have found it! I swear!”  
“…vinewood.”   
“…dispose of your dead…   
“Cappuccino.”   
“Harry.”   
“Arresto momentum!”  
“…your friends to die for you.”   
“Expecto Patronum!”  
“Time turner.”  
“HARRY!”

The cacophony of voices is attacking Narcissa, until the last desperate cry of a name cuts through all of them and creates a sudden, oppressive silence.

Narcissa cautiously opens her eyes and takes her hands from her face. The mindscape is still dominated by too vibrant colours but this time there is also a herd of thestrals flying around the fortress. Their movement majestic, mesmerising despite their terrifying sight.

‘ _What a formidable witch.’_ Narcissa can’t help but muse.

“Mrs. Malfoy?” A disbelieving voice asks her.

‘ _Oh._ ’ Narcissa can’t stop her involuntary reaction soon enough. She winces, to her shame.

“Not. Quite.” Narcissa says, turning to the direction the voice came from.

There, about five meters of her stands the witch. The picture projected of herself differs from how she truly looks in reality, in Narcissa’s opinion. Her hair is more managed, she has fuller cheeks, and healthy, dark brown skin. Her front teeth appear to be larger than in reality. She seems somehow also smaller. With her right hand she clutches Hogwarts: A History to her chest. Her left arm on the other hand is held away from her body, slightly awkwardly. And it hasn’t stopped bleeding. Narcissa can see through her long-sleeved shirt.

_‘The slur carved in her. Even here, in her mind she carries it.’_

Narcissa doesn’t know whether she can name she is feeling pity, guilt or something entirely different.

The witch cocks her head and stares at her.

“The time magic.” The witch says at last, eyes slipping shut with understanding.

“Yes.” Narcissa replies with some elation at the witch’s sharpness despite her injured state.

“The year?” She inquires.

“1978.” Narcissa readily supplies for she is curious about the reaction. She isn’t disappointed. The witch sways and almost kneels over in anguish but for a thestral’s timely intervention. They land next to the witch and gently take hold of the back of her shirt.

‘ _She has travelled then several years. And knows the repercussions_.’ Narcissa deduces.

The ‘HarryHarryHarryHarry’ whisper picks up again.

Narcissa clears her throat rather unnecessarily. The best curse of action is to supply information in order to gain her cooperation, ideally trust even.

“We don’t have much time.” She begins loudly. The disembodied whisper ceases. She continues in an urgent, more silent tone. “I have found you on the West Corridor, the early hours of second of May. An uncontrolled temporal magic disposed you there. I have given you first aid, but you are in need of immediate medical attention.”

The witch looks down at her arm where the slur is cut into her, then back at Narcissa. Narcissa merely nods at the silent question. Yes, she has seen it and helped her despite everything.

The witch gazes intently into her eyes.

“What is your proposal?” She asks at last.

Narcissa is surprised to have been looked this easily through.

‘ _A smart, observant witch. Perhaps this isn’t going to turn out as an unmitigated disaster as it could have been.’_

“You have a structured mind. Yet you aren’t an occlumens. You are out of your time, and there is no way back. With your knowledge of the future you endanger your life, your timeline, and potentially everyone who is important to you and already exists now.”

“True.” The witch concedes without any dramatics for which Narcissa is grateful. She keeps on expectantly looking at Narcissa.

“You are a source of invaluable information therefore you are going to be used and abused. I-“

“Want to be the first one to use that information?” The witch interrupts Narcissa rather rudely. Her tone is dry yet slightly amused.

“Not exactly.” The witch looks intrigued. But stays silent.

Narcissa swallows her pride, misgivings, tramples half her instincts to muteness, and bids her inheritance adieu. Her only hope is that House Magic is going to recognise this act for what it is.

“I propose an alliance. You answer my questions regarding my family and in exchange I’ll help you guard your mind. But beware, I am a born legilimens. I’ll know whether you are telling the truth.”

The witch cocks her head again. At the same time as the thestral next to her does. In the same direction. Narcissa tires her best not to show her discomfort at the eeriness of such synchronised, strange actions. She completely ignores the thestral’s white searching eyes and keeps her gaze on the witch’s.

“I won’t be able to tell you the whole truth. For your own sanity.” She says at last.

Narcissa’s long exhale is a testament to how relieved she is. The witch is not disinclined.

“I am aware.” She says.

“In that case, look down!” The witch shouts as the thestral charges at Narcissa.

Both actions are so unexpected that Narcissa stumbles backwards…

…out of the witch’s mind.

She feels herself gasping. Which in the next moment turns into a breathless chuckle.

_‘What a juvenile technique! Stampede by thestral?! The Giant Squid possesses more delicacy. The woman must be a Gryffindor!’_

In her effort to dispel other outer signs of her displeasure Narcissa aims to flatten her robes. But as she lifts her arm, she realises what the woman truly meant.

The rune for honesty and verity is drawn onto her palm. In the witch’s blood. _‘Such primeval but effective magic.’_ Narcissa idly wonders. She couldn’t have lied to the woman, even if she would have tried. She wordlessly looks at the witch, meeting her gaze.

“That is the only reason I am trusting you. Your family and I have complicated history, yourself included. But you have proven yourself. The magic didn’t activate. So now we can talk.” The witch’s voice is weak, she manages a mere whisper. But her brown eyes keep on steadily looking up into Narcissa’s. Her bloody, soot- and tear-stained face is set with determination. Her earnestness befuddles Narcissa. But she always acknowledges a well-played party. Begrudgingly. She nods in lieu of laudation.

“May I?” Narcissa indicates with her hand back to the witch’s forehead. “We truly must hurry for your shake.” The witch nods, and this time Narcissa enters her mind via looking into her eyes, now that she is conscious.

This time they are in a small wooden, intricately carved pavilion. Narcissa doesn’t waste any more time.

“In your mind we can talk faster. Time barely passes in the outside world, for we are not diving into your memories.”

Despite her reassuring words the witch looks paler. Yet for the first time she truly engages in the conversation.

“An unbreakable vow is out of question, as we don’t have a witness, and witch’s oaths are famously unreliable for their fallibility and tendency to produce unforeseen stipulations. Besides, I refuse to bind our lifeforce or magic as a proof of reliability and accountability. What did you have in mind?” The witch asks Narcissa in the tempo of a practiced rambler.

Narcissa silently thanks the stars -for the first time in her life- that her eldest sister has only five passions in this life. No other interest. At all. Bellatrix is at times the most one-sided conversationalist to Narcissa’s aggravation. But Bellatrix’ penchant to leave her books on obscure magical war strategy all over Black Manor (including on Narcissa’s balcony that has been warded against Bellatrix for this explicit reason!), might just save Narcissa’s skin, aspirations and sanity in this situation.

“The Valauskullisuus-Charm.” She says tentatively, wondering just how she is going to explain an obscure charm born out of historical necessity in a foreign land.

“The Finish Oath for Loyalty Among Equals?” The witch blurts out to Narcissa’s utter bafflement. How does she know? There is only a single book in English that mentions this charm, and it was published in wretched 28 copies back in 1937.

“Yes.” Narcissa finally says.

“It was such a fascinating read how Tuula Kaarina Halonen rallied the Finnish wizarding society to create a historic unity in light of adversity in 1916! What a brilliant witch! And to think how its effects were also felt during the Second-…”

Narcissa has to interrupt her, however how she dislikes to be put into such a situation.

“Do contain yourself. You are amenable to do this oath then? Once completed, our magic is going to recognise the other as an ally with unquestionable loyalty to each other or our common cause. We are going to be equals. It shouldn’t be taken lightly.” Narcissa dearly hopes her family isn’t going to perceive her decision to enter such an alliance as a transgression. Or worse.

“Yes. I am willing, of sane mind and of pure heart. I accept you as my ally. And I offer you my loyalty.” The witch says without hesitation.

‘ _Dear Morgana, she has already begun the ritual recitation! She is Gryffindor, without a single doubt.’_ With a weary sigh but refusing to think any more about what repercussions this is going to have on her life, Narcissa steps back into her own body. She takes the witch’s hand, moves their clasped hand in a circular motion between them. They recite the words in Finnish while they are looking into each other’s eyes.

Narcissa holds her breath in anticipation whether her magic is going to accept the alliance. One heartbeat. Two. Finally, she feels her magic singing in her veins.

_‘It is done.’_ She thinks.

Yet, in the wake of her relief a peculiar sensation settles in her chest. Something heavy, ancient but living, still thriving begins to spread in her. Almost like an entity of its own. She feels powerless to stop it. Slowly, it is gaining the upper hand over her body. Once powerful enough the sensation metamorphoses into hundreds of shades of light, white, grey and dark. Narcissa loses the ability to feel her body, her magic, where she ends where the entity begins. The lights engulf her, whatever is left of her, some of them haunting others arresting. There is however a single element of continuity, a shared shred of familiarity in their essence.

Narcissa decides to take another leap of faith this morning. She trusts the familiarity and opens herself up.

“You did well, Child.” The approval comes in the voices of dozens, beyond the lowly barrier of gender. Suddenly Narcissa understands. The family magic of House Black choses to manifest itself in her. She is utterly humbled. There have been only two instances of such an occurrence since the House was established in the early middle ages. She feels distantly how at the periphery where her magic crystallises itself into her body, beyond the magically amplified warmth, pride and pleasure the house magic choose to bestow upon her, her tears must be falling.

“The Magic is calling upon you, Child. Do your duty.” Dozens of Blacks of the past whisper with the same voice.

Narcissa lets herself go completely. She feels how her body becomes a vessel to the family magic. She feels herself speaking but the words are beyond her perception in her liminal state.

She is filled once again with a sense of approval, before the family magic recedes.

Narcissa shakily exhales. Her whole body is trembling with residual ancient magic. She fists her wand to centre herself, she must do her duty after all.

When she opens her eyes, her gaze falls to the faint sunlight on the witch’s face. It has yet to move, barely any time has passed, even if Narcissa feels like she fell through centuries. It is still dawn.

The injured witch is staring at her in wide-eyed wonderment. Her words have apparently deserted her. Narcissa feels the house magic gently reminding her to finish her task. That she is on the right path.

“As for how we are going to occlude your mind,” She begins, as if nothing extraordinary has transpired between them. “we are going to hide you.”

She sees the witch swallow her questions with difficulty. She nods at last, silently agreeing to follow Narcissa’s lead.

“We are going to use the Etruscan charm of hiding something precious, on whose base the Fidelius Charm was later developed by the Romans. Are you familiar with it?”

“No.” The witch whispers utterly fascinated.

“It is no wonder, given only women can perform it. And that there was an attempt to use this charm on the entirety of the Etruscan culture.” Narcissa allows herself a small grin.

“It is a peculiar piece of magic, for it also demands two persons, at least one of them a woman, who completely trust each other. One of them says the incantation, casts the spell, which calls the other’s magic that hides the precious information in the person’s soul, whose magic was activated. The castor serves as a conduit and as an anchor in this piece of magic. Due to the interconnectedness in the implementation of this charm, we both are going to be Secret Keepers. For the lack of better word, I am using the terminology associated with Fidelius, even if it is imprecise in this instant. Do you have any questions?”

The impossible witch has the audacity to grin at her!

“So many! But they can wait until later. Let me gather my thoughts. Complete trust required you said? I wish you could appreciate the irony here, we both would have a laugh!” The witch remarks dryly. “There are going to be two Secret Keepers. Doesn’t this mean even more danger to you?” She inquires.

Narcissa is at loss of words. She is unaccustomed to such perceptive and caring attitude in the company of complete strangers.

She nods at last, a hint of hesitation colouring her gestures.

“Theoretically. But I must warn you, this isn’t a…” She pauses, searching for the appropriate word. “…proficient enough solution. This is going to protect you only against opponents who are held accountable by international magical law and against persons with scruples.”

She sees the fear in the witch’s eyes. She was right of speaking about this then.

“No one else will have the ability to access your mind, aside from me, if you invite me in. Though if your enemies don’t care about the destruction of a single mind or a soul in the pursuit of their interests…” She trails off.

“Ah. It is a fancy, complicated plaster-solution in the end.” The witch bites her lip in order to stop herself from crying.

“Your reference escapes me.” Narcissa says not unkindly.

“Never mind. We will revisit the subject of permanent solutions at a better time. Do it. Cast the spell.” Her determined brown eyes meet Narcissa’s. Only now, in the creeping morning sunlight that falls into her eyes can Narcissa see that the witch’s irises accommodate several different shades of brown

“Very well.” Narcissa again sits back on her heels. She closes her eyes, calls the part of her magic where she feels herself tethered to her ally’s magic, gently pulls the strand of magic to the surface, beginning to create a temporal magical connection. She initiates the wand movements, feels her magic reaching out and activating the witch’s. With the last downward movement of her wand she sends her own magic down into the ground, fulfilling her role as an anchor.

_“_ Unialθi.” Narcissa says in a clear voice. She feels as the witch’s magic responds along their magical connection. How it manifests itself in a beautiful, warm, vast yet gentle storm. She feels just how powerful her ally is. She opens her eyes, keeping the connection between them open, and sees how the witch’s magic begins to dance around and in the witch. Finally, it settles anew.

Narcissa feels acknowledgment deep in her body. The house magic recognising her duty for now fulfilled.

They both take a deep breath.

Narcissa reaches up to the silver button on her uniform, to finally rip it off, alerting the staff to a medical emergency.

“I am Hermione.” Says the witch - Hermione, before Narcissa can reach the button.

She hesitates a moment. She has already cast away several ingrained conventions today before the sun is properly up. Yet another isn’t going to matter. She decides against the standard required reply.

“Narcissa. It is an adventure to meet you, Hermione.” And with a small grin she finally yanks the silver button off of her uniform.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few thoughts:  
> \- I am beyond exited to finally share this story with you. It has been brewing for years!  
> \- I might be even more exited about finally being able to contribute to this pairing!  
> \- the name Tuula Kaarina Halonen is of my own making, (respectfully) borrowing names of Finnish olympic athletes  
> \- English isn't my first language, nor the second, so feel free to drop a line if anything sounds too foreign (apart from the actual foreign words)
> 
> this chapter has been brought to you by:  
> 1) [I cannot emphasise this enough] Slytherin Pride!!!! *decks herself out in green and slow dances up the dimly lit room*  
> 2) Hedningarna's song, Tuuli


	2. Heilung

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for mention of systematic persecution.

The hospital wing succumbs to utter chaos, as soon as Fräulein von Bernburg, the mediwitch lifts Narcissa’s stasis spell. The witch, Hermione, is laid on her stomach. She is bleeding profusely. Fräulein and her apprentice, Pomfrey try to assess the extent of the damage done to Hermione.

Slughorn collapses into a stool and begins to fan his greenish-tinted face, murmuring nonsense. Professor Flitwick conjures a handkerchief to a visibly stricken Professor Sprout. Professor McGonagall stands a good metre away from the patient’s bed, out of the way motionlessly staring at Hermione.

Narcissa is too drained to infiltrate McGonagall’s mind, but if she were to guess, the Pretty Half-Blood is conducting something utterly Gryffindorish. Like not looking away from a potentially dying young woman in order to honour her in her last moments. Narcissa turns away to stare resolutely out of the window. She feels detached, as if she were floating outside of her body.

She is suddenly brought back to herself by a faint rustling noise to her left. Dumbledore stands next to her and he seems to be meticulously patting down the pockets of his mauveine robes. A colour most hideous in Narcissa’s opinion, at any time of the day, but especially so early in the morning. With a triumphant little huff, Dumbledore finally unearths a single piece of candy, only to discover it is an empty wrapping.

Narcissa has already reached her tolerance for incompetence this month and it is only the second of May. She conjures him a chocolate frog from the kitchens, before he can begin his noisy quest anew, forgetting the merits of a simple summoning charm.

To Narcissa’s astonishment, Dumbledore happily bites into the frog, without checking it for hexes or potions. Narcissa can’t quite decide whether to feel insulted by being this underestimated or exhausted by yet again having to entertain the thought how anyone in Gryffindor lives to see their thirteenth birthday.

Narcissa brings herself to look at the bed, where the witch, Hermione lies and Fräulein von Bernburg works. Fräulein’s wordless diagnostic spells are more complicated than anything Narcissa has ever seen. Granted, Andr- _Othersister_ has been at the beginning of her Healer Studies when she has been teaching Narcissa basic medical spells. Narcissa knows logically, any stasis spell must be lifted in order to get an accurate reading, yet she can’t help but feel unease at the ghastly sight of the sheer amount of blood.

Narcissa assuages her worry for Hermione (which she promptly and most decidedly attributes to the after-effects of their Alliance-Oath) with observations. Hermione has lost her consciousness but at least this way she doesn’t feel pain.

Narcissa trusts Fräulein von Bernburg more than anyone else in the room. She has been after all the only adult ever who has always answered Bellatrix’s many peculiar and at times disturbing questions, without judgement. A trait which Narcissa rewards with her own trust and loyalty, neither of them mentioned nor shown for Fräulein needn’t know of Narcissa’s gratefulness.

The diagnostic charm’s light-blue light finally ceases. Pomfrey, Fräulein’s apprentice, administers immediately two doses of Blood Replenishing Potion. Narcissa can see as Fräulein von Bernburg activates the runes for “fire”, “life/circle”, “healing/whole” which erect a ward around Hermione’s bed.

 _‘It must be a ward for sever burn-victims. But why would anyone use that in the case of cutting curse?’_ Narcissa muses.

Fräulein looks troubled. She murmurs a “Wieso nicht?”, as she lifts her wand anew. Yet she hesitates. She steps back and turns to face the room as Pomfrey begins to heal Hermione’s smaller cuts, burns and lacerations.

Fräulein’s appearance, her angular face, full lips, high forehead, huge, round green eyes and blonde hair has never failed to make Narcissa feel slightly intimidated by her. Even before she said anything in her usual no-nonsense, strict, Prussian-disciplinarian-of-times-past manner of speaking. This time though her face is carefully devoid of any emotions, most atypically for Fräulein. Narcissa immediately prepares herself for the worst. Or for lies.

“Thank you for escorting the patient here. You may go now. This is going to take some time. Minerva here will apprise all of you of potential developments.” Fräulein dismisses everyone. If Narcissa weren’t so attuned to reading people, she wouldn’t have noticed the minuscule signs of distress in the headmaster’s body language.

 _‘He must have heard something out that escaped everyone else’s notice.’_ She thinks intrigued.

“You needn’t tell me twice, Fräulein.” Slughorn hoists himself up. He is almost at the door when Dumbledore’s voice stops him.

“We should excuse Miss Black for today’s classes, shouldn’t we, Horace? She has quite the ordeal behind her.” He even has the gall to fleetingly place his hand on Narcissa’s shoulder!

Narcissa is so outraged she is certain her look conveys her singular thought. Murder.

“Naturally. Na-tu-ral-ly.” Slughorn drawls in his typical distracted, jovial manner, utterly failing to notice that he has been manipulated by the headmaster.

“I am going to take care of your classes today, worry not Minerva.” Professor Flitwick says as he is escorting Professor Sprout out.

Professor McGonagall nods but she doesn’t take her eyes off of Fräulein. Her dark green eyes, her furrowed black eyebrows and her measured movements as she unnecessarily adjusts her square spectacles are testaments to her worry and curiosity.

“Poppy, if you are finished, the hospital wing is your responsibility for today. You are ready. In the unlikely event you have questions, you know where to find me. Otherwise I am not to be disturbed today.” Fräulein says as she unclips the hourglass brooch from above her heart which denotes her as the Head Matron of Hogwarts. Pomfrey looks as surprised as Narcissa feels herself. But she is a smart woman, she merely nods and disappears into the mediwitch office.

“Since you have invited yourself along headmaster, you could make yourself useful and shield this area from the rest of the hospital wing.” Fräulein sets Dumbledore to task.

Narcissa feels privacy and magic negating wards come into existence.

“What have you found, Healer von Bernburg?” Dumbledore asks.

Narcissa cringes innerly. No one ever makes the mistake twice calling Fräulein von Bernburg anything but Fräulein. For some reason she takes bigger pride in her not being married than in her academic achievements or other titles.

Fräulein’s eyes twitch in annoyance but most atypically for her she merely ignores Dumbledore. And turns to Professor McGonagall.

“Minerva, the…” Fräulein’s next word fragments into unintelligible syllables for Narcissa’s ears. _‘A Fidelius Charm!’_ Narcissa thinks. “…Charm, if you would, please!”

Professor McGonagall can’t hide her astonishment. Yet she lifts her wand without hesitation. The incantation itself also breaks into a jumble of strange syllables, and as soon as she begins to execute the wand movement, the light surrounding her wand-arm fragments into its components. The rainbow of colours blind Narcissa with their sudden brightness.

 _‘Not only the name, the incantation and the wand movements as well are Fidelius protected. Only one institution goes to such great lengths in secret keeping. The Department of Mysteries.’_ Fräulein’s involvement with the ministry is nothing new to Narcissa. Bellatrix still chuckles every single time, to this day, whenever she recalls how Fräulein rebuffed the personal request by the Minister of Magic herself to work again for her. But McGonagall’s? Narcissa is unable and unwilling to rationalise her growing awe of Minerva McGonagall away.

Every pure blood family respects Professor McGonagall in her own right, for she is a formidable witch. She is one of the foremost experts of transfiguration in Great Britain, yet she has left research behind. She is powerful, yet never abuses her authority or influence. She is strict and always fair, no matter which house does a mischief. There has been rumours that she might have worked for the Department of Mysteries but no amount of blackmail or bribery from the old families, the Blacks among them, could yield a definitive confirmation as far as Narcissa is aware.

‘ _Pretty and powerful._ ’ Narcissa thinks somewhat starstruck without an ounce of shame.

Before Narcissa can contemplate just what the purpose of Professor McGonagall’s charm could be, Hermione’s body begins to emit a low, for Narcissa by now almost familiar golden light.

Narcissa hastily allows her mask of indifference fall over her face, hiding all her emotions and thoughts. She is not dilettantish enough to reveal her familiarity or knowledge in such an unrefined way. Luck has been her companion thus far this morning, none of the professors asked her whether she saw how Hermione has arrived.

Yet, the golden light of temporal magic changes everything.

If the sudden tension in their body language wouldn’t have been obvious enough, the meaningful exchange of glances between her professors and the healer would have confirmed Narcissa’s assumption. They all know that the witch is a victim of temporal magic.

“Of course, the youngest Black had to find her!” Fräulein muses out loud, grinning at Narcissa.

Narcissa would be utterly disturbed by the sight that the severe German witch is capable of amusement, if she wouldn’t be distracted by Dumbledore attempting Legilimency on Hermione. on an unconscious, seriously injured witch.

Narcissa doubts anyone else would notice what he is doing, since he isn’t using the incantation. But Narcissa is intimately attuned to the sensation of mind magic. And the typical slashing upward wand-movement betrays Dumbledore however how subtle he tries to be. He is a powerful wizard but certain types of precision magic require wand, if one isn’t blessed (or cursed) with an innate ability to execute them.

‘ _Dear Morgana! Allow it to have worked._ ’ Narcissa thinks, before she resigns herself to her fate. ‘ _What is done is done. The “potion’s proof” and some such nonsense._ ’

Narcissa waits with bated breath whether Dumbledore’s charm works. Even if the most likely scenario comes to pass -namely she has made a powerful foe in Dumbledore by helping Hermione hide the access to her mind- Narcissa can at least console herself with the knowledge that she has acted in accordance of her own logic. Which most unexpectedly merited the blessing from the magic of house Black.

She feels how Dumbledore’s attack simply slips off of Hermione. He tries again but he can’t find any purchase on the smooth, impenetrable magic protecting Hermione’s mind.

Dumbledore lowers his wand. Narcissa readies herself for… She has no idea what. The headmaster of her school wouldn’t attack a pupil under his care. …but he could ruin the political aspirations of House Black in his role as the newly minted Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.

Yet, before Narcissa’s anticipation could truly soar like a hypogriff, the delicate situation takes the most baffling turn. Dumbledore begins to _chortle_. At first nearly silently but as his open amusement gains power, so does his laughter.

 _‘This is it. He has finally lost his remaining gobstones!_ ’ Narcissa can’t hide her consternation, however how hard she tries.

“Black queen to c3, Miss Black? What an astonishing move!” Narcissa knows he is referring to chess, but she can’t fathom what exactly he means. And quite frankly, after a day she has had so far, she couldn’t even bring herself to care about Dumbledore’s games.

Narcissa concentrates on the fact that the fool fails to see how he has given her insight into his mind. Or in this case, confirmed Narcissa’s concerns that he does think of people and situations as pieces on a chess board. “Well done!” He continues. “You have managed to surprise me.” Dumbledore openly admits.

Before Narcissa can come up with a believable way to feign confusion and innocence, Fräulein begins to swear under her breath. Narcissa doesn’t need to understand German to be perfectly aware how Dumbledore is being verbally sent to a warmer climate.

“Albus Dumbledore! You better not have done what I think you did!” Fräulein finally gathers herself enough to string two sentences in English together.

“Why Healer von Bernburg, it would have been against international law.” Dumbledore states the obvious and sidesteps the question of guilt rather clumsily in Narcissa’s opinion. But using her title for the second time seems to have annoyed Fräulein beyond civility.

“Mir reicht’s! Get out of my sight!” She dismisses the headmaster, her actual superior. She turns to a still slightly dumbfounded Professor McGonagall. “Und du Mädel! You know what to do! Na hopp!” Narcissa sees McGonagall’s lips thinning in annoyance. She understands. She too would have been annoyed if she were in her 40s and a witch in her 50s called her “lass” and said to her “chop, chop”.

Professor McGonagall’s beautiful dark green eyes flash with displeasure, her nostrils flare but she restrains herself. She concentrates on Hermione and begins to cast. Her words and wand movements fragment and distort once again. The golden light settles around Hermione then evaporates, somehow making the contours of her body sharper.

“We needed to anchor your friend to this plane of time.” Fräulein turns to Narcissa, explaining what is happening. “Uncontrolled temporal magic can destabilise the body on a subatomic level. The long-term repercussions could have…”

“Von Bernburg!” Professor McGonagall growls. „That is classified inform-…”

“Yes, yes. And the girl already knows, Minerva. She is in it.” Fräulein impatiently waves McGonagall’s objections away.

Narcissa has been wrong. She doesn’t have to be in her 40s to be annoyed about being called a girl. But there is something more pressing. She opens her mouth to deny any involvement on her part but Fräulein talks over her.

“The activated runes around the bed will keep the blood flowing, prevent the development of any infections in your friend’s body and speed up the healing process for her smaller wounds. I had to implement a treatment we would normally use by burn victims, because that is no ordinary curse cut and its healing is going to take time.” Fräulein motions to Hermione’s back. She looks Narcissa in the eye and says in her most earnest reassuring tone: “She is going to require several procedures. It is going to take a while. But she will recover.”

Narcissa hasn’t even been aware just how worried she was for Hermione. She doesn’t know how she could properly convey her gratitude without appearing overly-invested in a to all intents and purposes stranger’s well-being.

The next moment however she narrows her eyes in suspicion. Fräulein has described Hermione twice as her friend.

‘ _Does she suspect something? Can diagnostic spells pick up the Valauskullisuus-Charm?_ ’ Narcissa wonders. She schools her features not giving anything away. Fräulein winks, _winks_ at her! The cheek of this woman!

‘ _She can be as impossible as Bellatrix._ ’ Narcissa can’t supress a long-suffering sigh at this thought.

“Now, meine Liebe-” Fräulein turns and addresses McGonagall. “step aside, I have a patient to heal.” Fräulein readies her wand, not caring anymore about the other occupants.

Professor McGonagall conjures herself a wing chair in her favourite tartan pattern, along with the most recent issue of Transfiguration Today and a steaming cup of tea. Her usually graceful wand movements are slightly choppy indicating her ire. But she makes herself at home, out of the way without further discussions.

Fräulein’s first two skin- and tissue-knitting charms fail. Hermione’s back is still cut open.

“Miss Black and I are going to conduct our own investigation over there, Adalheidis.” Dumbledore remarks. Narcissa has never heard Fräulein’s given name, but now that she did, she doesn’t have to wonder about why the witch sends a nonverbal incendio towards Dumbledore’s beard. She too wouldn’t like to be called like a nun from the middle ages.

Dumbledore dispels the conjuration, wandlessly wordlessly with great amusement. He summons Hermione’s wand and turns to Narcissa.

“Come along Miss Black!” He motions to a door at the far-left corner of the hospital wing, which Narcissa has never seen before.

‘ _It must be under a notice-me-not charm._ ’ She thinks.

“Don’t go too far, you Krampus! I might need Black’s assistance.” Fräulein hollers after Dumbledore. Narcissa is intrigued. How could she help an experienced healer who is savvy and intimidating enough to have impressed even her peculiar, moody and disrespectful oldest sister? And just what does Dumbledore want? Is he going to finally interrogate her?

Before she can develop any solid strategy how to navigate a potentially tricky situation, Dumbledore opens the door and they enter a small room. Its ground plan is square, three lance-shaped windows allow ample light to fall in, its ribs intersect in fan vaults. There is a vitrine to Narcissa’s left, with few potions in vials displayed in it. A long table offers enough work space in the middle of the room. The dusty silver and copper instruments and the different types of cauldrons on it give Narcissa the impression of a seldom used laboratory.

“It has truly been an ingenious idea to magically hide the access to our visitor’s mind, Miss Black.” Dumbledore nods in her direction with another small chuckle.

Narcissa has decided not to deny or confirm anything. She merely lifts an eyebrow. Which seems to be enough answer to Dumbledore, as he nods again as if Narcissa had verbally responded.

“Were you by chance entrusted with our patient’s name?” He asks. Narcissa merely lifts an invisible lint off of her robe.

“Very well.” Dumbledore says with a small chortle.

“The only thing you haven’t thought of, or perhaps you have run out of time to act on it, is the matter of our visitor’s wand.” Dumbledore addresses finally the subject at hand.

Narcissa knows she failed to supress her surprise. He isn’t going to interrogate her. He intends to teach her something.

‘ _But why? What is his aim with this charade? Is it a charade?_ ’ Narcissa thinks.

Dumbledore must perceive some sign of her confusion, for he freely elaborates.

“Black queen to c3. A magnificent move! It has been years that I have been surprised and even more that a move of mine has been anticipated and thwarted beforehand.” The twinkle in his light blue eyes is a testament to his elation.

Narcissa has come to the conclusion during the year opening fest after her own sorting that the headmaster has vastly different ideas what constitutes as “elaboration” than normal witchkind. She doesn’t even bother to mention that she hasn’t been aware of them having an ongoing conversation, let alone playing chess.

“There is only a single instance of potential weakness in your strategy.” Narcissa once again exercises her extensive social etiquette lessons as a Black and does _not_ scoff at the patronising tone. She is mildly curious where the odd wizard is going with this.

He pulls out Hermione’s wand. And lays it on the table between them.

“What can you tell me about wands, Miss Black?” He truly intends to make this a teaching moment. This isn’t a charade.

“Olivander is firmly of the opinion that the wand chooses its wielder.” Narcissa says cautiously.

“You seem disinclined to agree.” Dumbledore observes.

“I…” She pauses to contemplate just how candid she should be. She decides to frame facts that are semi-common knowledge as if they were her opinion. “…believe that wandlore is a highly specialised, obscure discipline of magic and as such benefits from an intentional aura of mystery. It is in the wandmakers’ interest to be as vague and simultaneously as captivating as they can be when speaking of wands. They keep the allure, their own importance and we get to held a key to our magic in almost a spiritual manner, forgetting that magic comes from within and around us. Wand is but a simple tool to channel our magic.” She says.

“Spoken like a true sceptic.” Dumbledore remarks, his cheerful mood and twinkling eyes remaining. “Alas, there are more than two sides to a wand!” He looks directly into Narcissa’s eyes over his half-moon spectacles. His voice becomes momentarily sombre. “Circumstances do matter, Miss Black.” Dumbledore finishes cryptically. He seems to have said everything he wanted to on the subject.

“And now let’s see what our visitor’s wand tells about her!” He rubs his hands together in his anticipation.

Dumbledore draws his wand, points it at Hermione’s and casts several non-verbal spells which Narcissa can’t identify. Magic materialises itself into different ellipses in colours of cerulean blue and black around the wand. Dumbledore hums thoughtfully, but he doesn’t explain what he is doing. He sheaths his wand and carefully takes Hermione’s in his hand. He waves with it in an idle star-pattern.

“Yew with dragon-heartstring. Most curious. A fearsome duelling wand.” He says at last.

He points the wand away from both of them at the wall. He casts prior incantato. The echo of a vial conjuration appears in front of them, followed by an echo of several patronus charms, several dozens of mid-level defensive and offensive hexes and curses. Dumbledore finally breaks the spell.

They don’t have to say anything to each other. For both of them is clear that the witch has been fighting for her life.

Dumbledore softly lowers the wand to the table.

“We have learned much, Miss Black…” He trails off because Narcissa picks up Hermione’s wand.

It feels cold, alien, defiant in her hand. She can sense no echo or familiarity with that gentle, warm storm she came to associate with Hermione’s magic.

“It isn’t her chosen wand. She doesn’t have its allegiance.” Narcissa feels deep in her magic that she is right. She doesn’t relinquish the foreign wand. She walks out of the laboratory, not even bothering to answer Dumbledore’s “… much, which we may put into another frame.” She hears him following her.

Fräulein is visibly struggling to maintain the cohesion of the knitted muscles and skin on Hermione’s back. There is perspiration on her forehead, her sleeves are rolled up and her long blonde plait became loose. But she keeps on carefully coaxing the healing magic. It shines in a beautiful moss green light with metallic hues. The charm itself behaves in a peculiar way as if it were a thick fluid instead of magical energy. It covers Hermione’s injury in a gentle, almost lazy ebb and flow of green.

Narcissa comes to an absolute still stand next to McGonagall. She doesn’t even dare to breath. Before her eyes the magic slowly begins to disappear.

‘ _No. Not disappear. Seep into Hermione’s body._ ’ She thinks, as the rest of the moss green magic is absorbed.

Fräulein is motionless for a moment, her wand still in mid-air, anticipation written on her features. After several heartbeats she grins at Professor McGonagall and Narcissa.

“It worked! There will be scarring but she will regain her full motion!” Fräulein says. “However…” She looks down again at Hermione and with an elegant flick of her wrist she summons two vials with a mulberry coloured potion. “…I haven’t seen injuries like these since 1942 in El Alamein.” Narcissa is certain that Fräulein is referring to the Second World War but she doesn’t know the history behind this place. Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall however go even paler and share a meaningful look. Before Narcissa can ask, Fräulein rambles on, without looking up from Hermione.

“Never in my life would I have thought that I am going to have to administer Collagen Regenerating potion in a school! In einer Schule!” She turns Hermione on her back and pours the first vial into her mouth. “What a… mieser, verdammter, abscheulicher, grässlicher Fluch! Crutiatus.” Narcissa doesn’t understand Fräulein’s German but she gathers from the context she must be cursing. “Drying out the collagen in the bones?! Could lead to permanent brain damage?! What kind of…” She trails off, struggling for a fitting description but English appears to be once again insufficient for her. “… _zertifiziertes Scheusal_ comes up with a curse like that?! And who is despicable enough to use it on a barely even adult young woman?!” Vials banished, she almost tenderly brushes Hermione’s hair out of her closed eyes.

“Von Bernburg? Did you just say she is suffering the after-effects of the torture curse?” McGonagall asks, her body trembling with horror.

Fräulein levels her with a gaze. “Yes.” Her voice lost its previous outraged intonation.

Narcissa sees from the corner of her eye how Dumbledore just slumps for a long moment. As if he were crumpling under the weight of the world. Or under guilt.

Professor McGonagall on the other hand positions her body between Narcissa, Hermione and the door. Her movements lack their usual purposefulness, as if she were trying to protect her students subconsciously. Any danger coming through the door must go through her at first to reach the young women. Narcissa tries and fails at not feeling touched.

Before she can nod at Professor McGonagall, Narcissa is suddenly overwhelmed with such a profound sense of suffocating grief that she almost collapses. She has never in her life felt remotely anything this deep and seemingly never-ending. Yet the feelings themselves have something foreign to them. She clings to this strangeness, decides to use it as an origin to create distance, to protect herself.

‘ _This isn’t my grief._ ’ Narcissa realises. She is a legilimens, not an empath. She shouldn’t be able to feel this much without even actively engaging the source-mind.

‘ _Unless the trauma is too great. And the person’s magic reaches out in a bout of accidental magic…_ ’ Narcissa clenches her teeth and fists to ground herself in her own body. She takes a breath, too shallow but holds it. She knows who the source is. Narcissa wills her body to move towards her. It feels like she were dividing a mountain with her steps. Finally, she reaches Hermione’s right side. She faces Healer von Bernburg. Fräulein is standing with her back to the hall and the others. She is motionlessly looking down at Hermione’s nearest arm. Staring at it. Narcissa doesn’t have to look to know it is the arm with the slur carved into it.

Fräulein’s hands lay at both sides of Hermione’s arm, her wand rolled out of her hand. Narcissa’s gaze glides up from Healer von Bernburg’s inert hands to her forearms.   
Her sleeves are rolled up.   
And there is a pink triangle tattooed on the inside of her dominant arm.

Narcissa doesn’t understand the meaning of it. On an intellectual level. But as she still feels torn apart by Fräulein’s emotional currents of grief, heartache, sorrow, guilt and a sense of… _kinship_ \- Narcissa recognises the triangle as a mark of hatred and persecution forced upon Fräulein von Bernburg.

Narcissa can’t undo Fräulein’s past. Even if she could, it wouldn’t be wise. But… as this is the woman who has always been kind to Bellatrix without a reason to and today even to Narcissa…

Narcissa decides to do something about the present.

In a deliberate move Narcissa reaches out. She places her hand on the triangle. Fräulein’s skin is slightly raised under her fingers. Her skin over the mark feels warmer as surrounding it. As if even her magic would reject its existence. She closes her hand around Fräulein’s forearm. And just holds the woman. In the here and now. She is waiting for eye contact for emphasis. But she has already conveyed everything she possibly can:

_I see you. You are here. With me. I see you._

The crippling grief coming off of Fräulein von Bernburg hasn’t lessened. It never will, it merely becomes hidden once again, Narcissa thinks. But the sense of kinship and protectiveness is growing.

Due to their skin contact Narcissa pics up Fräulein’s sole thought, the picture of a white rose accompanied with the word “courage” in its lilting French original sound.

The moment their eyes meet, all of the feelings churning off of Fräulein stop. As if a dam has fallen into place.

Narcissa nods at her, wordlessly vowing not to speak of this episode. She lets Fräulein’s arm go. She looks down at Hermione. Giving Fräulein room to gather herself. She needlessly smooths over the blanket next to Hermione’s body.

Narcissa ignores, ignores, _ignores_ the thought that this was the first time since saying goodbye to Mother before first year that she has touched anyone deliberately who isn’t her sister.   
Before her thoughts can spiral down the dark path just what an emotional burden it means to be a Black, she feels suddenly enveloped in the warmth of ancient, protective magic. Her loneliness recedes, the magic of house Black is responding to her. For an inexplicable reason she feels as if she were smelling loose leaf Earl Grey tea. She feels warm, secure.

‘ _Is this what home is supposed to feel like?_ ’ She wonders.

The house magic resonating in her answers.

***

The next time she sees the witch, Hermione, Hermione is sitting on the steps leading to one of the pavilions in her mindscape. She is looking at the herd of thestrals flying in a tight, circular pattern over her red fortress in the distance. The upper part of the sky is already a starry night but close to the horizon the last rays of sunlight rage against dying.

It is eerily quiet. There are neither whispers of fragmented memories nor wind. The pavilion Hermione sits in front of has an octagonal ground plan. It is made out of a light-coloured wood with distinct grain. Narcissa doesn’t recognise the type but she appreciates its strange elegance, which is even more enhanced by leaf and vine motifs carved into the wood.

Hermione’s companion from last time, the lone thestral sits next to her, looking up at the sky just as Hermione does. Hogwarts: A History is discarded in front of them in the green grass.

Hermione looks unimaginably tired. Her brown skin and mess of dark hair can’t hide just how resigned she appears. Under her long-sleeved shirt her left arm is still bleeding, even in her mindscape.

Given Hermione’s appearance, the eery presence of thestrals, the unnatural quietness, the in its death frozen vestiges of sunlight, Narcissa doesn’t entertains any kind of optimistic illusions how the witch might be doing.

“Mrs. Malfoy.” Hermione greets her in a flat intonation.

“I am yet to marry, Miss…” Narcissa pauses but doesn’t ask. She shouldn’t even know. She settles for a name she has been entrusted with. “…Hermione.” She is merely reminding, without reprimand. She is too emotionally and physically drained to react otherwise. She also doesn’t want to give Hermione the opportunity to allow one less question about her family because Narcissa was in her surprise careless enough to be baited into an involuntary inquiry about her potential marriage.

“My apologies.” Hermione says, not looking away from the thestrals. The Thestral though next to her looks up at Narcissa and motions with their head to take a seat at Hermione’s left side. Narcissa supresses her discomfort at the sight of blood and sits down.

“Are you here to ask your questions, Narcissa? I have felt attempts to read my mind fail, so you must be here for my end of the bargain.” Hermione asks.

“No.” Narcissa exhales deep and long. “This day has lasted for years. Neither of us has the faculties required for such a serious conversation right now. And your body is still being healed. So no, not yet.” She says.

Narcissa doesn’t elaborate why exactly she is again here. And Hermione doesn’t ask but seems to inherently understand.

“Thank you.” Hermione says instead.

Both of them keep wordlessly observing the dance of the thestrals in the purple sky, basking in the silence of their strange togetherness. Letting the reality of having someone next to them with whom they are going to weather the oncoming storms together sink in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few notes:  
> -Homosexual women were labeled with black triangles for being "asozial" - instead of pink triangles like homosexual men during the Nazi regime. But since there is so little research done on this subject this is not a widely known fact thus I made the choice to use an incorrect depiction. I also didn't want to use "merely" numbers (as would have been historically correct) as tattoo because that could imply a character of Jewish origin; and my research into depicting Jewish characters with magical power AND in accordance with their faith is still ongoing. I take this very seriously. The truth is I am not yet informed enough to attempt a respectful, authentic depiction of a witch or wizard of Jewish heritage. They deserve better than their heritage being reduced to a throw away half-a-sentence-worth mention, it has to be their integral part!  
> Also: in my headcanon witchkind knows about the world wars. It is bloody unlikely that they didn't realise it is raining bombs during the Blitz, at the very least. And on the contitent some of them have been imprisoned in camps. And now I am thinking about Beauxbatons students in the résistance dammit! XD
> 
> -von Bernburg is absolutely the lovechild of Meinhardis and Bernburg from Mädchen in Uniform AFTER the two of them met up AT LEAST 10 years after Meinhardis graduated.
> 
> -black queen to C3 is a reference to a wold championship match between Kasparov vs Anand on 26.09.1995 in New York. This is one of the most surprising chess moves in history hence I choose it. (it is also mentioned that this wasn't the first ever instance to have been used, so I am running with the head canon that wizards discovered this in 1979, a year after Dumbledore thought of this)
> 
> -I wasn't planning on writing Narcissa this touch-starved but in the Black family peak parenting is known to happen...
> 
> -Hermione's most recent pavilion (of many) is built out of cedrus deodara, naturally!
> 
> Thank you for reading, commenting, bookmarking and for the kudos! I am so humbled and overjoyed by the reception this story has gotten so far.
> 
> This chapter has been brought to you by:  
> Love and Death by Bălănescu Quartet (and Maria Tănese's Lume, Lume)


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